The Story of Us
by Andrea Sinisterra
Summary: [Drabble] Life with him wasn't as simple and fulfilling as you expected it to be... yet growing old with him, loving him, hating him... Married life has never been so perfect.


**The Story of Us**  
By Andrea  
_Standard Disclaimers Apply_

**AN:** Written for a little drabble challenge, in the spur of the moment, I came up with this. When I was done with it, I thought maybe I could work more on it, or base a fic on it, but… I kind of like it the way it is right now.

There are no warnings for this one, people-lin'! Just straight-on romance and life in general. Please, leave a review when you're done reading; I'd love to know what you think. For some reason, I find myself attached to this one.

Enjoy and review!

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You know everything about him, is that not right? You know at what angle he tilts his head when he's confused; when he smirks, you know whether he's really smiling or just mocking you; you know he doesn't drink coffee because it gives him a headache, just the same way he can't start his day without some sugar somewhere in his breakfast. You recognize the easy way he tells you he loves you, even if he has never said the words; you understand his silence, especially when insipid words are just too much.

You admire his strength because he's opinionated and fair, almost as much as his stubbornness grates your nerves. You think about the times he leaves his wet towel on the bathroom floor, or the small bits of toothpaste stuck on the porcelain sink, and even how he always seems to fall asleep late at night when he's trying to read a book after he's promised to keep you company—all those times when you probably wanted to just put your hands around his neck and squeeze.

But you can't fool yourself; you know you love waking up to the sound of the water running as he rushes through his morning routine; you love how he insists on spending a quiet night at home, together, yet he always ends up sprawled asleep on the hammock, the spine of his book creased as it lay forgotten on his chest.

It's a feeling that doesn't go away, but it's constantly changing, more intense, more intimate.

Somehow, you had never paid any real attention to his hair; that once heavy mop of soft brown hair now freckled with white; or those permanent smiles edged clearly around his eyes and lips, fair witness that he'd learned how to let go.

Maybe it was something in his eyes, those amazing dark depths, as deep as the Delphian brine, which told you something was slipping away. Perhaps it was a sort of sixth sense, some kind of intuition; a message perfectly executed, yet terribly delivered which led you to believe something was going on.

It didn't matter that he seemed to grow deeper and heavier; it didn't matter how he no longer fell asleep when reading books, how he gave away his morning sweet in exchange for some pill you know would not do him any good.

You no longer woke up to the sound of the shower running, opting instead on waking up early and bathing him, running your soft, withered hands over his pale skin.

Perhaps you ought to just relent and surrender, yet you recognize the power still burning in his gaze; that loving spell he's still able to cast on you. You realize that you can't find it in yourself to give up—to give him up. You think that there are many things still pending, so little time; he never took you dancing under the moonlit sky, or fed you grapes while watching the sun set. Such simple things that you never got to do.

Yet, you didn't miss out on amazing adventures such as bungee jumping off a high bridge, your arms and head sinking into the cold ocean below, the feeling of emptiness eating you whole. A safari in Africa, riding a camel in India, or just cruising down the interstate with miles and miles of quiet emptiness all around the two of you.

You are happy to admit that you have done far more than you had ever expected; you have experienced sensations you had never even dreamed of. Wild, adventurous, unique things he taught you.

Sure, he had enjoyed his books, though they had never held such intense interest, not enough as to keep him from sleep. Nor could you ever convince him to eat dessert or any sort of pastry after a meal. He was just not a man for sweets. You used to call his bluff, seeing as he ate one vanilla cream wafer cookie every morning after his breakfast, but as you were soon to find out, that cookie would be the only sweet he'd have in the day.

And now, after such a long run, the sun streaming in long golden tongues into the room, cascading over walls and chairs, touching your skin and warming it with its caressing touch—yes, even now, with his chest rising and falling evenly beneath you, his breath playing softly with the hair at your temples, you know you had never known any other person as deeply as you know this man, you understand that your life, through laughter and problems, has been good, and that even though you wish you'd both stayed just a little bit longer, you can't find a reason to complain.

Most likely you will argue each other about which way is the correct way to paradise; most likely you'll both get it wrong on the first, second, and third try, but you won't care. Because you never have, and you're too stubborn to start now.

**The end.**


End file.
